White Flag
by blindkitten
Summary: When a seemingly simple case turns out to be a lot more complex and finally too much for Dean, Sam has to undergo a strange process to get his brother back in one piece - mentally and physically. Set roughly in Season 1, no slash.
1. Prologue

_So, I've basically merged two story ideas in this one, but it actually makes sense. The chapters will start slightly slow, and Mary Sues and OOCness will abound – but never fear, I have sailed these waters before. Anyway, I think it will take a little while for all this to coalesce into the story I have in mind. Bear with me – there is a due time for everything!_

_This is set around season 1, simply because that is my sandbox. There won't be very much of a difference, but I thought I might mention it up front._

_Disclaimer: I own naught but a pesky, persistent rash of plot bunnies. _

The rain had turned into something of a siege, rattling windows and sending winds to shake even the doors. It was like a car crash – awakening primal fear but impossible to look away from. A silhouette was trying to imprint itself on the window, eyes shining with the light on in the next room, staring at the rain, the faint tendrils of lightning in the distance.

"Can't sleep, huh?" A second figure slid from the darkness in the background. Her voice was dripping with sugar, her eyes sparkling with an eagerness that didn't show in her voice.

"Mmm?" said the man, glancing at her with intense longing for just a moment before his eyes were drawn back to the window. "No." There was a long pause, and the woman crept forward, feet placed carefully so that they made no sound. "You don't have to stay up. I'll be back in bed soon, sweetheart."

"I know, darling," said the woman, her arms snaking gently around the man. "But it just seems so cold in bed without you."

He smiled, leaning back so his head settled into her hair. She brought one arm up to stroke his hair, softly. A kind of drunkenness crept over the man's face, and he closed his eyes and sighed contentedly. "What would I do without you?" he asked.

"Live," she said, and the knife flashed from her hand into the man's chest. His eyes flew open, as did his mouth, but all that came from it was blood. Her fingers glided through the blood and she cooed softly. "Shh, darling. It'll all be over soon."

_Dun dun dun. This is an uber short chapter, I know, but it's only the prologue! :D Review, I guess, tell me what you think._


	2. On Fire

_Amazingly, I already have subscribers. Hopefully, they'll stick around. Here's another chapter!_

_Disclaimer: See previous chapters and stories. :D_

"So, do you want to know anything about this hunt, or are you just going to mope about your car all day?" Dean glared sullenly at Sam, who rolled his eyes. "Dude. It's a _car_. It's not like taking her to the mechanic is going to hurt it."

"I can't believe I have to let someone else touch my baby," Dean grumbled, and Sam clapped his hands to his head, trying to force himself to have the patience not to smother his brother with a pillow and hide the evidence.

"Dean. It's not like it's _cheating _on you," he managed through gritted teeth. Dean looked at him sadly, eyes saying that, yes, it was very much like that. "IT'S A _CAR._"

"You wouldn't understand," Dean said, sniffling a little, and though Sam could count the number of instances that Dean had cried on one hand, he seriously wondered if this wouldn't add another. "I mean, what are the chances that the _only _thing I can't fix in my baby is the _one _thing that goes wrong with her?"

Sam sighed. He'd been wondering the same thing, mostly as a question to God, trying to figure out what he'd done wrong to deserve this. "Dean. Just take her to get a new battery…" Dean opened his mouth to explain exactly what was wrong with his car, and Sam cut in with a quick, "… _OR WHATEVER, _and I'm sure that the mechanics are going to treat _her _nicely." Dean mumbled something under his breath, and Sam didn't want him to elaborate. At all. "And then, you can come back, car good as new, and we can actually finish this hunt." Dean said nothing, looking at his shoes. "Good?"

There was no reply, but Dean got up, grabbed the keys and left, which Sam took as a good sign. And if he went after Dean to check, he'd probably end up killing him.

There was about an hour of blessed silence before Dean returned. "How'd it go?" Sam asked, sort of impulsively, not looking up from his research. There was no answer, which wasn't at all like Dean. If it wasn't bad, he'd play it off, pretend he'd never been upset, if it wasn't, he would have complained all day. He looked up. Dean was standing by the bed, tapping a pen against his hand. His face was out of Sam's view, so he couldn't tell if Dean was alright. "Dean?" he asked, louder than before.

Dean jumped, suddenly looking at him. "What?"

Sam frowned. Dean seemed fine. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?" Dean looked bewildered, and Sam wasn't sure what to think.

"I asked how it went and you didn't answer. I just… nevermind. How was the mechanic?"

"Smoking hot," Dean said with a giant grin, sitting down beside him. "Now about this hunt."

Sam rolled his eyes and looked down at his scrawled notes. Dean was definitely fine now, whatever that moment of distraction had been. He waved away his worry. "There's been three victims so far, all stabbed in their homes."

"That's… really supernatural, Sam…" Dean said, and Sam glared at him.

"I'm getting there. First of all, none of them showed signs of a break in. Second of all, none of them died of the stab wound."

Dean frowned at that. "So, what did they die of?"

Sam shrugged. "No one knows."

"Huh. Guess that's a case after all."

"One more thing," Sam added. Dean watched him expectantly. "All of their girlfriends are MIA."

"Succubus?"

Sam frowned. "Maybe. But succubi are more into the whole one night stand thing."

Dean nodded thoughtfully. "Take 'em home, bang 'em, kill 'em." He snickered at his own joke. "Maybe it's a relative of some kind? Likes to take its time?"

Sam shrugged. "Could be. The best I can find in dad's journal is a succubus, so it's possible. I don't know, though. Thought we might start interviewing neighbors, see if they noticed anything odd."

Dean shrugged. "Sounds like a plan. Come on, let's take my car!" Sam groaned, rolling his eyes before he followed Dean. It seemed the craze was not over just because Dean had had his car fixed.

-X-

"Seriously, who names their kid Gertrude? It's like a practical joke or something."

"Seriously, if you mention it while we're interviewing her, I will do all of the things I wanted to do to you this morning."

Dean gave Sam a funny look, and Sam regretted the wording of his comment instantly. Before he could make any defense, the door swung open, which was probably good, seeing as Dean would twist any explanation he had and make the situation even worse for him. Instead, Dean suddenly went hilariously wide eyed, staring at the occupant of the door frame, a small young woman with wavy blonde hair and a Beatles shirt. "You know, when I said see you around…"

Dean gaped, opening and closing his mouth somewhat like a fish. "I… uh… We're private investigators and…" he gestured at the house where the murder had taken place, and she nodded with a mouthed, 'ohhh'. "We… I swear I'm not stalking you."

She smiled understandingly, nodding again. "Right. Come on in."

"She's the mechanic?" Sam whispered, leaning down to Dean's ear. Dean glared at him. Sam smirked. "Small world, huh?" He earned a quick punch in the gut for that, but he couldn't help grinning at how quickly Dean shot in the door.

She led them into the kitchen, gesturing for them to take seats. "So, uh… I thought your name was Mary?" Dean said, pulling up a chair for himself. Sam shot Dean a quick look, but if the name bothered Dean, he didn't show it. Sam shrugged inwardly, figuring that Mary was common enough a name that Dean was probably used to it by now.

"If your name was Gertrude, wouldn't you use your middle name?" she shot back, rummaging in the fridge. Sam and Dean exchanged looks, nodding in acknowledgement. "Do you want sandwiches or anything?"

"I wouldn't say no to peanut butter and jelly," Dean said quickly.

Sam rolled his eyes at Dean's insatiable appetite. "I'm good, thanks. Now, you already told the police you didn't notice anything the night of the murder, but did you notice anything strange in the days before?"

Mary thought about it, spreading jelly on a slice of bread. "Um… nothing really. I mean, yeah, the girlfriend, but…" She shrugged. "Do you want this without the crust?"

Dean looked up, blinking. "Uh… sure?" he said, looking startled. Sam looked at him, making sure to note the odd reaction.

Mary seemed to have noticed it as well, looking up and twitching a shoulder apologetically. "My brother likes it without the crust so it's sort of a habit to ask," she explained.

"That's alright. It's just…" he looked down, shaking his head and laughing slightly. "Nothing. What was that about the girlfriend?"

Mary finished the sandwich and handed it to him, leaning back and thinking. "Well, she move in like… a week after he first mentioned her, which… I mean, he liked to brag, so it couldn't have been much longer after he met her, you know?" The brothers nodded, and Sam motioned for her to go on. "But… he was in _love _with her. Like… he idolized her a little. And… she was, like… totally his type."

Sam frowned. "What do you mean, his type?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. It was like… he had a thing for red heads..." she paused, seeing their confused expressions. "I know that because I dyed my hear red for a while, and it… was awkward." They both nodded, understanding. "But anyway, this chick, I swear, every time you saw her, you'd reach for a fire extinguisher." Dean snorted, almost choking on sandwich. "And she'd always be wearing his favorite color… it was sort of weird, you know? Like she was doing it on purpose."

The boys exchanged knowing looks. "Anything else?" Sam asked for good measure.

She thought, then shook her head. "Nope, that's all. I mean, I didn't tend to see him a lot anyway, so…"

"One more thing," Dean said, swallowing down the last bite of his sandwich with effort. "Do you know who found the body?"

She shook her head. "No one does. It was called in anonymously, but…" she paused. "I think it was the girlfriend."

_There's a real chapter for ya! :D It'll be Expositionville for a little while, but… Ah well. Review!_


	3. Clara's

_I don't really have any clever snarkisms right now, so I'll just go ahead into the chapter, sound good? :D_

_Disclaimer: I don't own anything, not even enough to be sued._

"Sam," Dean said suddenly, collapsed on his bed in the motel room, flipping absently through channels. Sam mumbled his attention, though it was still riveted on looking through tons of succubus lore and drinking coffee to keep himself from falling asleep from it. "On a scale of one to ten, how much would you freak out if I took Mary to dinner?"

Sam choked, spilling coffee all over his front. His laptop was forgotten as he stared at Dean. "Come again?"

Dean looked mortified that he was even talking about this. "It's just that she fixed my car and I thought it might be a good thank you," he said quickly, words blurring together.

Sam just stared.

"And she seems like she's not really the one night stand kind of girl, you know?"

"Since when do you _care_?"

Dean shrugged, a hair's width away from blushing. He looked at the TV intently, not wanting to face Sam's astounded staring. Sam felt a grin crawling over his face. "You _like _her, don't you?" he teased, and Dean looked like he wished he could melt into the bed.

"Do not!"

"You do too!"

"Do not!"

"Just take her to dinner, jerk, I'll check out the houses myself."

Dean groaned, rubbing his hands over his face, then sat up, looking at Sam as though the world was ending. "Dude," he moaned, then went silent. Sam motioned for him to continue, trying not to laugh. Dean mumbled something inaudible, and Sam raised an eyebrow. Dean sighed and repeated himself, still mumbling. "I didn't get her number."

Sam giggled, quickly sorting through the papers on the table. "Here," he said, handing Dean the paper with Mary's contact information. "Use it wisely."

Dean hurried over and snatched it, quickly turning his back to Sam as he called. Sam snorted, shaking his head and pretending to turn back to his research, though he was much more eager to listen in on the conversation behind him. "Hi, Mary, it's Dean," Dean said, smooth as ever, but then he paused and stumbled. Sam stuffed his fist in his mouth to keep from laughing. "What? No… I… um… actually I was just wondering if… uh, yeah, if you wanted to go to dinner sometime?" There was a pause. "Yeah, tonight would be fine." He sounded relieved. "Sure. I can pick you up…" His voice regained its usual confidence. "Of course, yeah. Sounds good. See you then." He hung up and noticed Sam shaking with choked laughter. "Shut up."

-X-

"Dude, I don't _own_ nice pants."

"Just wear something without holes in it, Dean."

"Fine."

The bathroom door slammed shut, and Sam felt like a mother hen. Dean came out a second later, sporting his cleanest pair of jeans. "Good enough?"

Sam gave him the thumbs up, and Dean stormed to the door, grabbing his jacket. "Oh, and Dean?"

Dean sighed, hand on the handle and turned back to Sam. "Yes, Sam?"

"Have fun."

He got a small smile for that. "Yeah, okay, bitch."

"Jerk."

He shook his head and picked up his list of addresses. While Dean was on his date, he could at least scope them out, see if there was anything funny about any of them.

-X-

Dean knocked on her door, feeling queasy. Sure, he slept with women all the time, but how often did he actually _feel _anything for them. Cassie, who had started as a string of one night stands, and maybe Haley, where he'd been most absorbed with not being killed by a wendigo the whole time. This whole "take her to dinner and maybe even see her again after you did whatever" was an unpracticed thing for him.

It took her far too long to get to the door, but when she finally did, he could see why. She was still putting on one earring and slipping into her shoes. "You're early!" she exclaimed.

"Actually, I'm right on time," he corrected, feeling like an idiot for it. Now she'd think he was mad or something.

"Same thing. I always add ten minutes at least. Family trait." She grinned, brushing her hair back over her ear so that her green earrings barely flashed through her wavy hair. She was wearing high heels, but she still barely reached over his shoulder. Her dress was sort of casual, but accented her figure perfectly, a deep, dark green. "But anyway, let's go."

They got into the car before Dean realized that he had no idea where they were going. He was going to mention as much, but Mary cut him off. "I know a great pizza place. I'll give you directions, don't worry."

It turned out that among her many qualities, telling left from right wasn't one of them, because twenty minutes later he was going in the fifth circle that night. "Should I just take the opposite road of what you tell me?"

Mary sank her head into one of her hands. "Just maybe," she said, shaking with silent laughter. "But hey. At least we're in an awesome car."

Dean grinned at that. "She is a beauty, isn't she?"

"Oh, God, when you brought her in, I wasn't sure I was brave enough to touch her." She patted the dashboard. "She sure runs well, too."

"She's a keeper, that's for sure."

"She sure is. By the way, you don't need any more turns now. Just go straight."

"Thank goodness for that."

Mary blushed, looking out the window with a smile. He couldn't help but stare at her as he pulled into the parking lot, the way her hair flowed down her back, the gleam of her earrings and the necklaces dipping down her collarbone. The car jolted as he went a little too far, and he pulled back quickly, blinking in shame as Mary giggled at him. "Shut up."

"I wasn't saying anything."

They got out of the car, and Mary waited for him to come up beside her. "1 through 40, what's your favorite number?"

"Two," he answered immediately, the day of Sam's birthday in May.

Mary nodded, smiling. "Nice and simple, huh?"

He grinned at her. "Yeah, well… Why complicate things?" He held the door for her. "How about you?"

"Seven twenty-nine," she answered. "But in that range, twenty-three."

He thought hard on that one, but deciding that it was probably a fairly long winded explanation, he said nothing and walked in after her. AC/DC was playing, and he figured this was already his favorite pizza place. The light was low, and there was a whole range of decorations all over the place – from beaded curtains to stools on the ceiling to a bus in the middle of the floor. "Two is by the bus, twenty three is up there by the window." He looked up. The window was made of stained glass.

"Well, ladies first, so… twenty-three it is," he said, tucking his hands in his pockets. "This place is awesome."

"I come here a lot. It's a great place to think, and the music is awesome."

"Kch, yeah, you don't say?"

"AC/DC guy, huh?"

"You like 'em too?"

"Love 'em."

They sat down at the table, which had a phone and the number twenty-three on it. Mary held up a menu to show him. "Pick what you want, then we call it in on the phone." She grinned. "And if we're sharing, I hope you like meat."

"Are you kidding? Best part of the pizza!"

"Right?"

He looked up at her, smiling. Maybe it was just the light filtering through the window, but she looked like an angel sitting there, looking down with a smile. "How about a beer for me and a Meatlover's for the two of us?"

"Sounds good." She picked up the phone mischievously. "Watch." She waited a moment, then started in a hearty pirate accent. Dean was almost under the table laughing. "Lemonade, beer and a Meatlover's for table twenty-three, mate!" she said, then hung up, joining him in hysterics.

They were still laughing when the waitress brought them their food, and Mary barely managed to thank her before collapsing back onto her elbows. The smell of pizza, though, brought them back to sanity, and they both dug in. Dean nodded vaguely at the music. "I don't know this song."

Mary choked, her eyes going wide enough to pop out of her head. "Really? You don't know MGMT?" He shook his head. "Well, jeez, gotta love the classics, but seriously, music lasted past the seventies!"

"You sound like my brother," Dean laughed, but he had to admit, this was better than Sam's music.

"I thought you seemed like big brother," she remarked, biting into a slice of pizza. "What's your brother like?"

Before he even realized it, he said, "Actually, Sam is my brother." Realizing with horror what he had just done, he quickly covered it up. "The private investigation business is sort of a family thing. My dad started it, and Sam and I sort of… kept it up."

"So… where is your dad? Surely not retired yet, is he?"

Dean smiled at that. His dad wouldn't retire until he was dead. "Nah. He's… ah… undercover, I guess. I don't know where he is, but he sends us jobs occasionally, so… I mean, he's still okay."

She nodded knowingly. "Hands off kinda parent, huh?" she asked, not a lick of judgment in her voice, a nice refresher from Sam, who was always reminding him how little John was around, caring about them.

"Yeah, I guess so." He took a sip of his beer. He couldn't remember ever having talked about stuff this honestly with a stranger, but Mary just seemed so trustworthy, he couldn't bring himself to be wary of her. "He's always been like that. Sort of holed up since Mom died, you know?"

"Oh," Mary said, nodding somberly. "I'm sorry."

He shrugged. "It's okay. I was four, it's… well… I don't think about it much, you know?" He looked down, his throat feeling thick. "Actually, and I mean this the least creepy way possible, you sort of remind me of her."

She nodded slowly, a gentle smile on her face, then reached across the table to take his hand. "I understand." He met her gray eyes and managed to smile back to her. He couldn't describe the way she made him feel, but he knew he wanted to see her again. Maybe go on a few dates, keep in contact while he was on the road, have all those normal things Sam seemed to think possible… "So anyway," she said suddenly, brightening the mood. "What are your favorite movies?"

-X-

Sam, in the meantime, was getting more and more surprised at how cold the nights got. He walked slowly around the first victim's house, his hands shoved in his pockets for some semblance of warmth. There was nothing off about the house, but he didn't think there would be. He wondered if he should go inside without Dean, when suddenly movement caught his eye.

His hand snaked back and latched on the gun tucked into his jeans. He looked out onto the street, where there was a girl bathed in the light of the streetlight, her dark eyes fixed on him. He couldn't help but notice that she was beautiful, pale, with dark lips and dark hair that swept around her face perfectly.

Neither of them moved for a long time.

It could have been forever long before she turned and made her way through the grass, walking with long strides and quickly disappearing into the darkness. Sam frowned, confused. Who was she? If she was the killer, why didn't she come for him? He shook his head, deciding to walk back to the motel. He'd already walked around the other houses, only to find nothing of value, no wilted plants, nothing broken, no sulfur and no EMF.

At the motel, he jumped straight into a warm shower, trying to warm up his freezing hands. After he was done, he burrowed under the covers and tried to find something good on TV, since Dean probably wouldn't be back that night.

As it was, he was still awake when Dean _did _come back. He stared. Dean stared back, closing the door behind him. "What?" he finally asked.

"It's only one in the morning, Dean. And you're back. In the motel room."

"Yeah? So?"

"So, I take it that it didn't go well?"

Dean smiled like a fifteen year old after his first date, except that Dean had been dating (or something) since he was thirteen. "It was great. Why?"

"You didn't… you know, stay over?"

"Nah. We had pizza and then caught a movie, and then we turned in for the night. I'm meeting her again day after tomorrow anyway."

"You're meet… you have a _second _date?"

Dean furrowed his brows at Sam. "Yeah, a second date. What? It happens, Sam!"

"Not with you, it doesn't!" Sam countered, sitting up. "You've never gone on a second date in your life."

"Yeah I have. You just weren't around." Dean said, suddenly defensive. He crossed his arms. "Look, I like this girl, I had a good time, I want to see her again. Is that so wrong?"

Sam stared at Dean. He had been encouraging Dean to do this pretty much all his life, but there was just some kind of niggling feeling in the back of his mind, like something was wrong but he just couldn't place it. Still, though, Dean did deserve something like this, a normal relationship outside of family and family friends. He sighed. "No. There's nothing wrong with that. I'm just surprised, is all. I'm glad you had a good time." He smiled at Dean, as though to ask, _No hard feelings?_

Dean nodded and returned the smile. "It's cool, Sam, I'm surprised too." Sam had to laugh at that. He could imagine. "What are you watching?"

"Well, the only things on that aren't puke worthy are _Star Wars_… And _It._"

Dean snorted. "_Star Wars _it is, then."

_Hope you liked it… I think it'll be speeding up next chapter, so if you're bored… stick with it. :D And review! Tell me what you think, good or bad!_


	4. Arguments Happen

_Just a warning, I won't be updating regularly. I don't know how much time I'll have in the upcoming weeks, since it's AP crunchtime and now we're going to state in two academic teams. Hopefully, I will be able to write a ton on weekends. But if you're reading, please review, because that makes it so much easier to squeeze in some more time for writing – otherwise it feels sort of like performing for an empty room. However, thanks to subscribers or anyone that favorited. You're motivating too! :D_

_Disclaimer: Nothing. Swear._

The next morning, Dean had a headache. Of course, the idiot didn't say anything, but Sam could tell. It wasn't just Dean that knew his brother like the back of his hand. The absentmindedness, short, one word answers, occasionally bringing up a hand to rub at his eyes – it was obvious, really. Sam didn't say anything, but he left the Tylenol in plain sight and left the curtains closed while they were in the hotel room. He made sure to watch if Dean got worse.

All the while, there was some incomprehensible worry in his gut that strove to be heard, but the source just couldn't be placed. Sam tried to go over the last few days – the murders, the girl he had seen… but all he came back to was that Dean really had been acting weird about Mary. He pushed it away for the time being – he'd corner Dean that afternoon, when they weren't doing anything. Dean wouldn't see Mary until the day after anyway.

"So, who are we seeing next?" Dean asked, squinting at the sunlight as they came away from breakfast.

"Second victim's step-father. Only relatives he has."

"Great," Dean said absently, and Sam wasn't sure if he was being sarcastic or if he was just emptily reacting.

"Dean, are you feeling okay?" he asked suddenly.

Dean looked at him, confused, as if Sam had asked a fundamentally impossible to understand question. "Hmm?" he asked, blinking. "Oh. Yeah, I'm fine, I've just got a headache."

Sam was beginning to worry. Dean _never _admitted to headaches. Ever. He'd always thought headaches were girly, and he had even tried to cover up full-blown, concussion induced migraines. Dean would never just admit to having a headache. For him to do so, the pain would have to be so bad, he'd be entirely incapacitated, probably with his brain leaking out of his ears. He nodded hesitantly. "Yeah, okay, you just seem a little drawn."

Dean shrugged. "I'm alright, Sam, don't worry."

Sam was doing exactly that, more so every minute.

They drove to the step-father's house. Sam knocked, and quickly introduced himself when the door was opened. "Hi, I'm Sam Marshall, and this is my partner…" he looked back, but Dean was far behind him. "… Dean Kent. He's… a little off today. We're private investigators"

The step-father was a small, round old man with kind-glasses. "Come on in," he said, gesturing with his hands. He led them straight to the living room, where they sat down awkwardly on the sofa. "What would you like to know?" he asked, watching them intently.

"We're very sorry about what happened to your step-son, Mr. Brown." Mr. Brown's eyes misted over, and he nodded, seeming incapable of speech. Sam went on. "We're trying to be as thorough in our investigation as possible, so we'd like to ask if you knew anything about your step-son's girlfriend?"

Mr. Brown nodded, smiling faintly. "Of course, they've been together since high school. Nearly seven years."

Sam and Dean looked up, surprised. Dean frowned. "And she's missing?" he asked. Mr. Brown nodded somberly, but didn't add any details. "Is there anyone who would want her out of the picture? Another woman, ma-" Sam elbowed him in the ribs.

"We don't mean to judge, Mr. Brown, but we need to know everything that would have contributed?"

"No. There was no other woman. Andrew loved Sarah. She went missing just a few days before his death. He was devastated. Ms. Hoth was the only thing that kept him going at times, I think." Sam and Dean exchanged looks, and Mr. Brown was quick to explain himself. "Oh, no, it wasn't like that. Ms. Hoth is ninety years old. Andrew spent a lot of time with her after she moved into the neighborhood. I think she reminded him of his grandmother. Poor woman." Seeing the boys' baffled looks, he gave them one of his own. "You didn't know? Goodness, the police must be doing an awful job of giving you information. Andrew was found in her house. She had a heart attack from the shock of finding him, and she was dead before the ambulance arrived."

Sam didn't know how he managed, but somehow he thanked Mr. Brown before pulling Dean out to the car. He was now fully panicking. The most recent victim had met the woman of his dreams – then Dean had met a hot girl who worked with cars and had almost the same tastes as him. Then, Andrew Brown had met someone who reminded him of his dead grandmother – just like Mary was eerily reminiscent of their dead mother.

Dean looked at him, startled, and Sam nearly launched into a tirade when he saw the girl from below the streetlight again. "Dean, look," he said, nodding at her.

Dean looked. "What?"

"That girl was around the first victim's house when I checked it out."

"What, that hot chick?"

Sam glared at him. "You are unbelievable."

"Yeah, and she's running," Dean said, taking off at lightning speed. It took Sam a moment to catch up, and he dove after them.

Who or whatever this girl was, she was fast. Almost too fast for them, and that was saying something, because they'd been running like crazy since they could walk. She led them over twisting paths and through alleys, and out of the town's bounds into the woods nearby before vanishing entirely. They skidded to a stop, trying to find any sign of her in any direction.

"Dude, she's friggin' gone," Dean said, bending to put his hands on his knees for support as they both tried to catch their breath. Sam gave him a quick, worried look as he realized Dean was breathing harder than him and swaying just a little.

"Dean, are you okay?" he asked, though he doubted to get a straightforward answer.

Dean waved him away, and Sam moved to corner him, confront him, but before he could even close the distance between them, a lightning-fast streak shot out of one of the trees, slamming Dean to the ground. Dean grunted slightly with the impact, but reacted fast enough to push away the thing on top of him, which was the same girl they were chasing, before she drove a knife into him.

Sam reacted quickly, pulling his gun from his waistband and firing a shot into the girl's arm. She cried out indignantly, looking up at him, dark indigo eyes flashing with some unreadable emotion before she leaped from Dean and disappeared into the forest. He shot a few rounds after her, but she was moving too quickly for him to make his mark.

He turned back to Dean, who was getting to his feet. "Did she get you?"

"Nicked my arm," Dean grumbled, gesturing at a small cut on his arm. Sam grabbed it and pulled it closer. It was small, hardly bigger than a paper cut. Sam let go, satisfied it was nothing to worry about. Dean nodded in the direction that the girl had vanished into. "Guess that was our perp, huh?"

Sam stood still, taking in a long breath of relief. "Thank God," he breathed.

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Uh, what exactly are you so happy about? You _like _it that I just got attacked?"

Sam's gut lurched nervously. "No!" he exclaimed. "I just… I thought…" Dean looked at him expectantly. "I thought Mary was the succubus," he blurted, hoping Dean would understand. Looking up at his brother's face, though, it was obvious he didn't, or if he did he didn't care.

"So let me get this straight," Dean grated out, sounding supremely pissed. "I have a good time with a girl, so she must be evil?"

"That's not…"

"I mean, you're always telling me I should act normal and stop acting like a jerk, and when I do, I've got to be under something's influence?"

"It wasn't because you liked her!"

"Then what was it about, huh?"

"She fit the pattern, alright?"

Dean glared at him, seething. Sam tried to think of when Dean had ever been this mad at him. Maybe when he had asked about Mom, or questioned what would happen to them if something happened to Dad. "I've spent my entire life giving everything up for you and Dad, and every time I want something for myself, you and Dad can't take it!"

The way he said it, Sam had to wonder what other times he had screwed up things that Dean wanted. The shifter's words rang in his ears, about Dean always giving everything up. "Dean, I'm glad you're happy, I just don't want you to die," he said softly, begging Dean to see that he was just concerned, not hateful or jealous.

"Whatever," Dean said, sounding entirely put out. Sam thought he preferred the anger. Dean turned around and stomped through the woods, and Sam didn't follow. Dean needed some space to think this over, come to terms with the fact that Sam wasn't trying to ruin anything. He waited for Dean to walk ahead some, then followed from a distance to make sure that Dean made it back to the Impala safely – whether it was Mary or not, the monster was still after Dean.

Seeing that Dean was safely in his car and headed in the direction of Mary's house (unsurprising), Sam started walking back towards the hotel. Lost in thought, he found himself bumping into someone a few blocks from the hotel. She squeaked, books dropping everywhere. "Oh! I'm so sorry!" she said. It was an older woman with bug-like, round glasses and long white hair.

"Don't worry!" he said quickly, picking up the papers from the ground. "It was my fault, I should have been looking at where I was going."

"Oh, it's alright, dear, everyone gets distracted." He smiled at her, lowering the books into her arms. She barely reached a foot over his waist. "Say, haven't I seen you around the neighborhood?"

"It's possible, ma'am. We've been investigating those deaths recently."

"Oh, yes, poor Gary," she said, and he looked up. That was Mary's neighbor. "Have you found anything?"

"We have a few leads. The next door neighbor mentioned there was some odd business with the girlfriend?"

"Howard said that?"

Sam frowned. "Uh, no. Mary." Her blank look made his stomach drop. "The one on the left?"

She blinked at him. "Dear, that house has been abandoned for years." He suddenly felt dizzy with panic. "Of course, Gary's girlfriend lived there for a week or so, but she moved in with him and then she just vanished after he left."

Stupid. He should have listened to his intuition. She fit the pattern perfectly, and he shouldn't have just let Dean go to her house alone just because there was another monster in town. What if there was more than one? What if it was a family, something like a coven of witches? "I'm sorry, but I need to go," he managed through his dry throat, turning around and running as fast as he could towards Mary's house, not looking back to see her reaction.

_:D Alrighty! Obviously, next chapter will be in the midst of the action, and then… well, I've got stuff planned, and I don't know if it'll be good or not, but that's up to reviewers to tell me. Both girls will be back, and no, they aren't the same person, but that's all I'm telling._


	5. Oysters

_So I basically spent all day watching Supernatural. Hah. Being sick is AWESOME. Sort of. Who needs a voice, right? Anyway, here's another chapter – enjoy!_

_Disclaimer: All characters and whatnot belong to Kripke. Srsly, guys._

"OK, this time, you're definitely early," Mary said, taking him in as he stood in the door, miserable, drenched in the rain that had started and his shirt torn and a little bloody. "Are you alright?"

Dean stared at her, feeling dizzy. What was it about her that made him so at ease? Not just at ease, but as if he was floating and it would only take a little push to send him tumbling into her arms, more relaxed than he'd been for years. "Not really, no," he admitted. She clicked her tongue sympathetically and waved him in, a cool hand on his forearm steadying him as he stumbled inside. "Sam and I had a fight." Mary was suddenly gone from his line of sight, and he looked around dizzily for her.

He jumped when she reappeared beside him, a towel and a blanket in her hand. She helped him shrug out of his jacket and then draped both around his shoulders, the towel shielding the blanket from the water soaked into his shirt. They were both freshly warm from the drier, but all he could think of was her hands as they smoothed the blanket past his face, her soft skin brushing the tiny amount of stubble on his face. His eyes fluttered closed, and he breathed in the smell of her, of cars and vanilla and spring.

"What'd you argue about?" she asked, her voice shaking him from his stupor.

He almost started straight from the beginning – succubus and then not succubus and then the girl attacking him. "Ah… we had a run in with our killer…"

"Oh my god!"

"… but she only nicked my arm, don't worry!" he added quickly when she stared at him in panic. Her horror faded but she watched him suspiciously, as though expecting him to suddenly collapse with a hidden wound. Much the same way Sam looked at him in these situations, only this time he was grateful for it – maybe because he wished that instead of arguing with Sam and thinking of all the things he had almost said to hurt his brother, he was curled up in the motel room watching some stupid movie with Sam, laughing it off that the girls were literally attacking him now. "Anyway, Sam admitted he thought it was you. I mean, he had his reasons, but he kind of freaked."

Mary was silent for a moment, then reached unexpectedly for his forehead. Normally, he would have jumped back, startled, but instead he found himself leaning into her touch, his mouth dry. "Were you sick when you left him?" she asked.

"Sick?" he mumbled. Her tone was so very _Sam_ and there was something weird about that, the way that she filled all the cracks in him, always…

"Yeah. Sporting a fever, 'bout ready to keel over?"

"I… I think I felt dizzy this morning." He certainly felt dizzy now, to the point that he wasn't sure if the floor was still firmly beneath his feet.

"You need to call him. He's probably worried sick about you, sick and alone out here with a serial killer maybe on your trail…"

He wasn't sure his shaking fingers could hold a phone right now. "M'b'later," he slurred, and he must have fallen forward because his head was on her shoulder and she was _definitely _shorter than him. "Just… need to lay down a sec."

"More than a sec," Mary admonished, propping him up with her shoulder and helping him over to the sofa. She collapsed down on it first, pulling him down next, his head burrowed in her shirt. He wasn't sure where his head had fallen, so he just hoped that if he was out of bounds she would direct him away. She held him closer, pulling the blanket over his shoulder, gently rubbing his arms. He closed his eyes, feeling as though he was melting, melting into the liquid of her presence, warm, safe, loving… "Where's your phone? I'm calling Sam for you."

"Don't wanna leave," he mumbled into something he was fairly sure was one of her breasts, but it didn't matter, because her presence was _everywhere_, surrounding him and wrapping him up and her actual body was just… details. Her arms pressed him closer, and there was a bone deep relief that swept through him, like some untamable craving had just been sated.

"You don't have to, but if you're this sick now, Sam must have noticed and you have to tell him you're not collapsed in a gutter somewhere. You didn't walk here, did you?"

The only thing he could really concentrate on was that she need the phone for something for Sam. "Left pocket," he breathed, wanting to help her get it out but only managing to squeeze open his eyes. Everything was too bright, too invasive. He closed his eyes, wanting to seek out that peace that her embrace brought over him again.

He could barely feel her hands reaching into his pocket and he didn't really register the sound of the phone clicking onto the table, though it sent unnamed flurries of knowledge that something was wrong to war with the much stronger feeling of happiness as she pulled him up beside her, head falling back over her shoulder, her hands gentle through his hair, her touch again reminiscent of Sam.

Sam.

She even smelled like him, that smell that only he had, of books from old libraries and tea green from his shampoo. She smelled like Dad, too, leather and car oil, and that vanilla, lilac mixture he always half-imagined, half-remembered for his mother. Panic finally jarred him into motion, and he made a weak move to get up, away from her, somewhere where he could just think straight, stop thinking he was nuts for even suspecting her…

She stopped him easily, pressing her arm around his shoulder tighter, something cold pressing against his throat.

Knife.

Where had the knife come from?

Pain angled through him, because he had really, really trusted her, not _with _anything in particular, but just in a _way_, a way that he hadn't even trusted Sam or his Dad, letting himself fall into her arms, letting go of everything and letting himself feel _safe _with her, and she had just betrayed it. He tried to pull in the breath to give a snarky comeback, but that seemed to be more than he was capable of, and it came out as a pathetic whimper as the blade pressed harder into his skin. He could have kicked himself.

"You really should listen to your brother, you know," she cooed in his ear, making him sick to his stomach. The way she spoke was so Sam. So Dad, too, really. And she was strangling him with it. "He's not nearly as sloppy or needy as you."

"You don't know me," he snapped back, but he knew it rang true. Sam could just go off to Stanford alone while he could barely manage the time it took for Dad to go on a solo hunt without his family. Sam had all that burning independence that always let him be more logical, more determined, more steady than Dean, the one who was always trying to please, trying to hold on to all the people dead set on leaving him. He'd be damned, however, if he let Mary know that. _I should start calling her Gertrude, _he thought, bringing himself a small smile.

"I know you were my easiest case yet." That sent a thrill of helplessness through him, making him feel weak. He gritted his teeth, furious at the feeling. "I'm sure you've been told otherwise by everyone else. See, you're kind of like an oyster."

"Oh, God, just kill me now."

She continued as if she hadn't even heard him. "I could go at you brute for the rest of my life, and I would _never _get anywhere."

"Damn straight, sweetheart."

"But if you just find the right cracks…" The blade broke his skin, just a little, on his throat where it rested, and it wasn't hard to see what had killed the others. Pain radiated through him, like fire in his veins, coming to a point in his heart, worse than the heart attacks he'd had. He screamed, back arching against his control, waiting for the pain to burn through him. He collapse against her, breaths coming out like sobbing gasps. _Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry._ "… you can pry your way straight into all that gooey goodness inside. All that love you have, that you're _starved _for…"

"Please," he moaned, because she _was _prying him open, tearing him in half on every front. "Please."

"… but you're too afraid, kicked to the ground to many times to even _want_ anymore…"

"Stop." His voice was barely there and it sounded so weak to his own ears that he wished he could just die right then. Her words were cutting down to the core. They were no different from taunts he heard every day, but they felt different.

"… Others take days, weeks before I get through, but you? You took seconds before you were hooked, just a pretty smile with a little magic to get you to your knees, all but begging for all that comfort and love you can't even accept from your brother."

There was a huge crash, and Dean had to admit there was something wrong with their lives if that splintering noise of destruction immediately communicated, _Oh, thank God, Sammy's here._ He twisted to see his brother storm into the room, gun drawn. "Let him go. Now," he growled in that deep, scary voice he used sometimes. It took every ounce of relief in Dean's body to not to start crying with relief.

"Speak of the devil," Gertrude said, and plunged the knife in between his ribs.

Strangely enough, no coherent thoughts came to him after that.

-X-

The Impala was in front of Mary's house when Sam got there. That, in itself, wasn't proof. The proof was that the keys were still in the ignition, and Dean would have died a thousand times before he did that. Sam saw red. This thing, whatever she was, had stormed into their lives and ripped Dean from all he cared about with the lure of… what? Love? Completeness? Things that should never be used to hurt?

The door didn't even stand a chance. He didn't even notice the splinters as he walked through him, didn't pay attention to what she said, hell, what he said, because all he could see was how vulnerable and relieved Dean looked from her arms.

Then her knife plunged into his chest and his world shattered. Dean arched, a choking, soundless scream ripped from his throat before Mary threw him into Sam's arms and ran. Dropping the gun impulsively to catch his brother, he managed to throw one arm under Dean's legs and another under his neck to slow his fall to the ground. He looked up to see Mary diving for a back hallway. He moved for the gun, but before he could pick it up, Mary jolted to a stop, back bent up.

It took him a moment to see why, but when he did it was obvious. There was the end of a poker sticking from her back, and from its position, it was most likely through her heart. He stood, frozen as Mary tumbled to the ground. Somewhere in her motion, her skin had turned a bluish-green and her hair had turned into silvery rivers. The girl from the woods stood behind her, dropping the poker with a hiss, as though it had burned her. She was a lot younger than Sam had first thought her to be from the few moments he'd seen her.

"Does this count as an apology?" she asked, looking embarrassed.

_So there we have it, folks! I hope you enjoyed, and props to emebalia for repeatedly knowing where I was going. Do tell me what you thought!_


	6. Apology

_Finally some reviews. I knew you people were alive! XD Don't mind me, I'm shamelessly begging for reviews. Anyway, here's the next chapter – and don't worry, it's not over yet, Sam's still got to save Dean… but how? Read on, dear readers!_

_Disclaimer: I have borrowed these characters and I am not gaining anything by doing so. Except… enjoyment, I guess?_

"Does this count as an apology?"

"For trying to kill my brother?" Sam growled, picking up his gun anyway. "No."

"I wasn't trying to kill him!" she cried, her voice going up to a hilariously high pitch. In any other situation, Sam would have smiled, but as it was, he was concentrating on shuffling beside Dean while still holding up his gun. Dean was unconscious, whimpering slightly in his sleep. The girl sighed, her arms swinging at her sides. She drew a knife from her belt, widening her eyes. "Ok, look. This blade is made of silver." She dragged the knife across her arm. It left a visible mark, but no blood was drawn and she didn't even flinch, though it went deep. "It can't hurt fey. That, by the way, is what we are. I sort of forgot that everything can cause humans pain."

"You forgot," Sam repeated incredulously, reaching one hand to feel Dean's forehead. He was burning up, and with his hand resting on Dean's forehead, Sam could tell he was shivering as well.

The girl threw up her arms. "I'm seventeen and from a different species! Cut me some slack, man!"

"Fine. Then what were you doing with that knife?" Sam growled.

"Protection seal," she said, sounding put out. "Figured I'd do and get out of your hair, and it wasn't until you shot me I realized I was being an idiot." She brought her hands up to fist in her hair. "God, I am so _stupid_."

Sam couldn't help but smile at her antics. "Fine. Say I believe you. Why are you helping?"

She looked at him, startled that he might actually be hinting at some semblance of trust in her. "Oh. I… um… Dean saved my life once. I mean, I didn't _look_ like this, but… I… uh… Well, I owe him."

Sam looked at his brother, flinching at some pain that touched him even in unconsciousness, pale and shaking. Dean was dying, and he had to take all the help he could get, whether he trusted this girl or not. She was easy to trust, sure, but Mary had been too, and look where that had gotten them. "Can you save him?"

"Um…" she said slowly. "_Technically_, I can only show _you_ how to save him." She shrugged apologetically. "I don't know him well enough."

"What do you mean?"

She stepped closer, holding her hands up in a surrendering gesture. Sam let the gun drop. She kneeled beside Dean. "This knife," she said, carefully pointing at the knife still in Dean's chest. "Takes… I guess emotional pain and turns it into… I guess physical pain. Or poison. Or… something like that. It's sort of hard to explain." Sam nodded impatiently. "Anyway, the only way to fix it is by going into his head."

There was a moment of silence. "Come again?"

"Inside his head," she repeated, as though she had been expecting that answer.

"Like… psychic… mind reading… sort of…?"

"Like Oz-fest dream-sequence sort of in his head."

Sam blinked slowly a few times, trying to arrange his thoughts into something coherent to say. "And that will save him?"

"If you can fix it… sure."

"And… you can do that."

She gave him a look that was nothing short of hilarious from the young girl. "No. I'm just telling you all this so I can walk off cackling while your brother dies." She rolled her eyes. "_Obviously_, I can do that."

"How?"

"Uh… that's a really hard question." She paused. "Look, are you ok with this or not? Because you're gonna need time in there and he doesn't have too much left." As if to prove her point, Dean shuddered beneath him.

Sam nodded, not another thought for his own wellbeing wasted. "I'll do it."

"Cool." She shuffled closer, then paused. "This is awkward, but the closer you two are, the easier it is for me."

Sam didn't hesitate to bring Dean up into his arms, flinching at the tiny, pathetic mewl Dean gave when the knife shifted in his chest. Sam thought about taking it out, but he wasn't sure if it would help or hurt – it was the only thing keeping the blood inside of Dean. He pulled Dean up so that his hot forehead pressed against Sam's cheek. "Good?"

"Perfect," she said, smiling comfortingly. "Don't worry, I'll take care of the wound while you two are out."

Sam nodded nervously. He'd never been one to accept unconsciousness, certainly not when the person giving it was even possibly untrustworthy, but for Dean, he tried not to pull away from her hand as it rested on his head, her other hand on Dean's head.

He blinked and was suddenly somewhere else, somewhere musty and dark, and Dean was nowhere to be seen. "Dean!" he called, panicked, standing. He choked on the smoky air, coughing roughly for a moment. He looked around. "Dean!" As he grew more accustomed to his surroundings, he could hear other voices, as though there was a crowd nearby. Looking over, he realized where he was. Or… seemed to be.

"A bar," he deadpanned. "Of course." He looked at the people aimlessly wandering around the bar, he realized something else. "Oh. Right. A bar with only women." He strolled closer to the pool table, catching sight of his brother.

Dean was, of course, playing pool, surrounded by gorgeous women. "See, ladies, _this_ is how it's done," he said, making a flawless move that Sam was sure even he couldn't do in real life. He pushed through the crowd of impressed girls, finding himself awkwardly pressed against their breasts more than a few times.

"Excuse me ladies," he squeaked, falling beside Dean.

"Sammy!" Dean cried, far too loud, swaying just a little. "How's it?"

"Your mind is a bar, Dean, really?"

Dean shrugged, and Sam could see he was totally drunk. More drunk than Dean ever really got. "Sure, I guess?" He frowned at Sam sluggishly, as though he had just noticed Sam was there. "Hey, how'd you get in here anyway?"

"I had help. Listen, Dean…"

"Was she cute?"

"What? Dean, it was a seventeen year old."

"Jailbait!"

"Dean."

Dean leaned forward, his elbow resting on the pool cue. "Yeah?" He asked, eyebrows raised and waiting for Sam to speak.

"In the real world…" Dean gave an amused 'pft' and seemed to lose interest. Sam grabbed his shoulders and shook. "Dean." Dean sighed and looked back, nonchalantly annoyed at him now. "In the real world, you've been stabbed. You're hurt. I need to fix it. Where do I go?"

Dean shrugged again. "I don't know. I never leave here, right ladies?" There was a resounding cheer, and Dean grabbed his glass from the pool table and drank to his own health. "And why would you? Come on, Sam, stay a while, have some _fun_ for once!"

Sam resisted the urge to strangle Dean. "Dean, you are _dying_."

Dean looked back at him, having been distracted by a redhead in the corner. "What?"

Sam sighed. This Dean was going to be no help to him. He needed to find another place, another part of Dean to help him. "Nothing, Dean."

"Ooh, she's new!" Dean said, wandering off after a tall blonde. Sam rolled his eyes. He knew this was just one part of Dean, one that was always at the forefront. There had to be other places, other rooms. He stood straight, looking around.

There. A door. He looked over at Dean, who was distracted, then quickly made his way to the door. He moved to open it, but suddenly Dean was there, his hand over the door. "Come on, Sam, you don't want to go in there," he said good-naturedly. "It's nasty back there. Here it's fun."

"I have to save you, Dean," Sam replied apologetically, and wrenched open the door. What was waiting on the other side was a strong punch to the jaw. He fell back, rubbing at his face.

The Dean on the bar side shrugged. "Don't say I didn't warn you, dude," he said, reaching around Sam's back to push him though the door, slamming it after him.

Sam took a moment to survey his surroundings. It was disturbing to say the least. Every monster they had ever hunted (and then some, probably from hunts he hadn't been on) had its head mounted on the huge, towering walls around him. There was a fireplace underneath a black dog head on one wall, an armchair beside a wendigo on another, and the door he knew he had to get to on the other side… with the shifter-Dean's head over it. "That's not at all creepy," he muttered, quickly moving to defend himself when a black shape slammed into him from the left.

He landed a quick kick to the stomach of his attacker, seeing a glimpse of his face as he skidded. "_Dean?_" he managed incredulously. Dean looked up at him. Sam's stomach churned. It looked like Dean, but it was all wrong. Nothing funny or sarcastic, none of the kindness that lurked there even when Dean was backing someone into the corner. Just pure, animalistic rage and killer instinct. "Dean, it's me, Sam!"

Dean lunged at him again, fists unusually strong against his blocking arms. "Dean! It's Sam!" he tried again, hoping he could get through to Dean.

"So? Why should I care? If you had never been born, Mom would still be alive!" Dean snarled, the pain from his fist in Sam's stomach barely registering against the pain that Dean's words caused. Did Dean really think that?

Dean lashed at his face, and he grabbed Dean's arm and twisted it around, coming up so that he leaned over Dean. Dean shrieked in anger, lashing around wildly, trying to buck Sam off. Sam almost breathed a sigh of relief. This wasn't Dean. This was a part of Dean, the part that would do anything before letting Sam in – there had been times when Sam had been trying to get Dean to talk and Dean had fired back with something utterly hurtful just to make Sam mad and leave him alone. "You don't mean that."

"You wanna bet?" Dean growled. "Why would I think otherwise? You're just a selfish freak!" Dean's elbow plunged into his stomach and sent him sprawling.

Sam gritted his teeth, quickly trying to fend off another array of furious punches. He didn't have time for this. He sincerely hoped that the pain Dean felt in his mind wouldn't really manifest itself physically and brought his knee up where he would have never, ever struck in real life. Dean went down like a bag of rocks, coughing in agony.

"I'm so sorry, Dean, but I have to save you."

Dean struggled to get out of the fetal position, watching Sam walk over to the door. "Sam!" he cried, and Sam couldn't resist the urge to look back in concern. "Sam, don't you dare!"

"I can't let you die, Dean," Sam replied softly. He wished he knew what Dean was so afraid of. What secrets could his brother possibly deem so important? "I'm sorry," he said again.

Dean growled again, trying to fight himself into a sitting or, knowing Dean, even standing position, refusing to give up. "Sam!" he yelled, and Sam closed his eyes, gripped the doorknob and pulled the door open.

_Still with me? This is sort of a turn in the story, so tell me if you like it or if you don't!_


	7. Mirror, Mirror

_What's behind the second door? How will Dean take this entire adventure of Sam's? Keep reading and you'll find out!_

_Disclaimer: My amazingly awesome brother promised me Dean Winchester for my birthday, does that count?_

As he walked in the door and closed it behind him, he found himself in a mirror room. Every wall was a mirror, and he was scared to take a step in the midst of all the copies of himself around him. "How metaphorical," he muttered. First the bar, Dean always joking everything away, then the fighting that always came with trying to figure out what Dean was thinking, and now the way Dean reflected Sam and John in his actions. "Can't you just make this simple, Dean?"

Stepping carefully so that he didn't run into the mirrors by accident, he made his way through the snaking, angled room to the other side. He stared at the mirror there, wondering if there was a door or not. He reached forward with one hand and pushed gently, startled when the image in the mirror changed from him to the image of a house. He stepped back, startled, but the image stayed. He looked around, but all the other mirrors were just that – still mirrors.

He could hear voices somewhere, in the distance, sounding angry. "Dean?" he called, though he couldn't determine where the voices came from. He looked back at the image. It seemed to be making the noise, but he couldn't imagine how. He frowned, putting his hand against the image, finding glass once again, as though it were a television. He gritted his teeth. He need to save Dean, and he didn't have time for this.

He turned to go, search for a door somewhere, when the familiar voice rang out and his blood ran cold.

"You walk out that door, don't you ever come back!"

That turned him back around, staring at himself from the outside on that day, backpack on his shoulder and fuming at his dad, just barely turning back to glare at him. He remembered that day well, but he didn't remember Dean being so close. He'd been too mad to see anything but John, and the fact that Dean was just beside his shoulder had entirely escaped him. He stepped closer.

Dean looked awful. He was pale, eyes darting between Sam and John, barely standing up straight, and when Sam looked closer, he could see Dean shaking, lips moving silently, as though wanting to say something but shaking too badly to manage it. Long story short, he had never seen Dean like this before. His stomach lurched. Was this really what Dean looked like as he was leaving? Had he been so furious he didn't notice this from just a few inches, not even a foot away?

The memory Sam turned to go, and Dean's hands reached out after him, like an unbidden impulse, but Sam didn't even notice, instead leaving and slamming the door straight in a thunderstruck Dean's face. With a growled, John left the room as well, leaving Dean standing, frozen, in front of the shut door, blinking owlishly.

A little while later, John returned with a duffel slung over his shoulder. "Here's the keys to the Impala," he barked at Dean, tossing Dean the keys. "Caleb's found a hunt in South Carolina."

"But I'm not packed," Dean said, clearly out of it and entirely confused.

"It's a simple hunt. I can do it on my own," John replied and without another word, he left, slamming the door on his way out. Sam gritted his teeth in anger, then realized that it was the same thing he had done. Guilt washed over him, and he set his hand on the glass beside Dean, who was staring at the keys as though he had never seen anything like it on the planet.

He stood there for a long time and Sam stood with him, the sense of needing to be there for Dean the second time through this outweighing the need to find… whatever. Dean staggered to the door and out to the Impala, and Sam's view followed him, just like a camera. "Just you and me, baby," Dean whispered to the Impala, sitting into it (_her,_ Sam amended, understanding a little of how Dean saw his car.)

The Dean closed the door and started the car. Or rather, he failed to. The engine whirred a few times, then refused to start. Dean tried again, but to no avail. He stared at the wheel, blinking quickly. "Et tu, huh, baby?" he whispered, and Sam would have laughed at his brother quoting Shakespeare if he wasn't a hair away from crying.

And then Dean started crying and there was no hope left for Sam either. He'd never seen Dean cry, not really, just a few, sparse tears here and there when the world really, truly came crashing down on both of them. Never this. Never this shoulder shaking, full body sobbing, rocking back and forth and wrapping his arms around himself.

The image disappeared, leaving Sam staring back at his own tear-streaked face. "I'm so sorry, Dean," he whispered, because _he _had done this, hurt his brother like this…

He stumbled back, feeling sick, catching himself on another mirror which flickered to life at his touch. This one he remembered clearly, the night before his final for his sophomore year English class, and he was reading through his notes one more time. Dad had been gone on a hunt with Joshua, and Dean had been left with Sam, researching another potential job. Dean was looking through the cupboards.

"Sam, did you eat the last of the bread?"

"Yeah," he answered, not looking up from his work. "Why?"

Dean leaned forward on the cabinet, shaking again. Sam seriously doubted he had eaten that day, and he _certainly _didn't remember that. Dean had looked fine that night, which was why he had been so confused when Dean had grabbed his coat and stormed out. He'd shaken his head and gone back to his studying, figuring Dean would come around eventually, whatever he was mad about. There was no way that Dean had had that kicked expression on his face when Sam had looked back, like Sam had just said, "Yeah, I cut off your leg, why?" instead of talking about two pieces of bread.

Confused, Sam kept watching as Dean staggered down the street, and from the way he walked, Sam amended that time spent not eating as days, not just the day. Dean stopped in front of the grocery store that was on the corner, pulling out a fifty dollar bill and eying it as though he would have eaten it just like that. He looked up at the window, where it displayed a cheery sign, "Sale on hotdogs and buns."

Then, his eyes roved over to the bookstore that Sam always stopped at to look at the collection of antique Jules Verne books that Dean had ended up getting him for his birthday, the ones he had Bobby hold onto just in case something happened to them, saying that he had run a few extra errands with some of their neighbors to get the money for it.

Sam could have kicked himself. How could he not have known? Dean did all the shopping, took care of all their money, made every meal (in the best way he could, which mostly meant with a microwave), always said he had already eaten after Sam came home from school. Sam wiped away tears from his eyes as he watched Dean sink down against the wall, a hand clenched around his stomach, tears pooling in his eyes.

Then, the image was gone again.

"Dean…" he sighed, wishing he could tell his brother that books didn't mean more to him than Dean, and that he just hadn't _noticed _how hungry Dean was, how much he needed those last two slices of bread that he had eaten after school just to procrastinate studying.

He bit his lip. Still, Dean hadn't looked like that. Dean never looked that broken up about things. Ever. He would have noticed if he was. The realization hit him like a ton of bricks. "Duh, Sam," he muttered to himself. "You're in his head – these are his memories, not what he shows the world." And that just brought up a whole new round of questions.

He looked down the hallway, back at the door where he had come from. In retrospect, it was sickeningly long. And damn it, he was going to see them all before he left.

He walked back to the end and started from there. This was a quick one, situated at a funeral – their mother's funeral, he noticed with a lurch – it was hazier, probably because it was older. A four year old Dean was sitting beside John in the chairs in the cemetery. John held Sam in his arms and looked shockingly blank, even as a woman Sam didn't recognize came up to speak to him. Dean dove from his chair and tried to grasp onto John's leg, but John pushed him away, resting a hand on Dean's shoulder.

Dean looked terrified, but he hung on John's every word. "Dean, listen to me. You need to be strong, alright? You're a big boy now, you hear?" Dean nodded, shaking with silent tears, staying where he was as John returned to his conversation with the woman. After she departed, John turned back to Dean. He brightened, seeming hopeful. "Come back up, Dean, sit properly, alright?"

Dean's face fell, but he nodded and did as he was asked and the glass went blank. Sam ignored the twinge of sadness. Even if watching all of these seemed important, he had to stay focused and hurry, because Dean didn't have forever. He moved along the scenes, what seemed like hundreds of them showing John pushing away Dean, ignoring Dean whether he was just looking for a simple hug or speaking for the first time in years, because he was busy, because he was drunk, because Dean need to go to bed, because Sam needed feeding… the list went on, and with every one, Dean looked more devastated (on the outside, knowing Dean, he probably looked less hurt each time) when he was turned away after looking to John for comfort, and Sam felt his heart hurting for his brother a little more.

It was two memories after the one about the rats (Sam was never teasing Dean about rats after seeing his brother stay up all night with Sam in his arms, kicking the things away after John had told him to man up and go back to bed) that explained everything. Until then, it had seemed that Dean had sort of taken John's gruff manner in stride, hurt but obviously understanding. John had rebuffed him yet again, and he went to Sam, which seemed to be the normal course of things.

He walked into the shared room where Sam, around three, was playing with toy trains. With a smile, Sam realized they were at Bobby's. Dean smiled softly at Sam and went to hug him, but Sam pushed him away with a chubby hand. From a three year old, that shouldn't have been much, but it sent Dean sprawling, looking as though he had been slapped in the face. "NO!" the small Sam cried. "No hug! Big boy now!"

Dean looked about ready pass out or throw up, and if Sam didn't know better, he would write it up as shock. Dean scrambled desperately to his feet, fumbling with the door and dashing down the stairs, crashing straight into Bobby. He flew back but didn't stop for a moment before scrabbling back to his feet. Bobby, startled, grabbed onto Dean's collar, jerking him back. Dean shrieked, sounding panicked. "Leave me alone!" he yelled, but Bobby only scooped him up into his arms and held him until Dean stopped kicking and screaming, going limp and sobbing instead.

Bobby set him down and whirled him around. "The hell is wrong with you boy? You look like you seen a ghost." He smiled slightly at that. Dean was shaking too hard to stand up, so Bobby pushed him down sitting. He gently titled Dean's head up, looking in his eyes. From the quiet 'hmpf' he gave, it was obvious he thought the same as Sam – shock. "You can trust your Uncle Bobby, Dean, it's alright."

Dean rubbed at his eyes, wracked with sobs. "Bobby, do you think there's… there's s-something wrong with me?" he asked quietly.

"You mean besides the fact that you just bolted down here screamin' and shakin' and blubberin'?"

Dean coughed weakly, sniffling. "I mean… I… I just… Sam says he's too old for hugs, but I… I still want them. I mean… like… not just hugs, but… I… that's not wrong, right?"

Bobby's jaw nearly dropped, and he pulled Dean into a rough hug. "Damn it boy, there ain't nothin' wrong with ya, ya hear?" Dean put his arms around Bobby, nodding. Sam knew Bobby was lying. There _was _something wrong with Dean, just not what Dean thought it was.

And apparently, Bobby was perfectly aware of that. Dean, on the other hand, sitting on the stairs eavesdropping on John and Bobby's argument, didn't. The betrayal was evident on his face as he listened. "Dammit, John, the boy came to me today 'bout near falling apart over hugs or something. There is something seriously wrong with your boy, and you don't wanna deal with it?"

"There's nothing wrong with Dean!"

"Yes, there is, John! You can't just ignore this and make it go away by being _harder _on the kid, you'll scar him for life if you haven't already!"

Dean gritted his teeth in anger and turned, hearing enough, going back up the stairs and back to their room where Sam was already in bed, sleeping soundly. Dean sat on his bed, staring at Sam, face cold. "Can't trust anyone, Sammy," he said, suddenly looking broken. He sniffed loudly and collapse back onto the bed, rolling over and crying quietly.

Sam pushed away, gasping with the painful epiphany. Dean thought something was _wrong _with wanting love. He honest to god… Sam grasped his hair with his fingers, pushing his palms into his eyes. "God, Dean you are so _stupid_ sometimes!" he cried into the air.

He kept looking though the memories, this stretch adding all the times _he _had pushed Dean away – as mad as he was at his dad, he had to admit, everything came before Dean. School, independence, books, hell, even girls always came before Dean. There were whole multitudes of times he'd not even noticed Dean was upset or sick or hungry or hurt, when Dean would notice any of those with him in a second. It was no wonder Dean didn't trust him to take care of him when Sam finally did notice – he didn't have much of a track record, and from what he had seen so far, Dean was also scared that he wanted it too much.

When he was done, Sam just wanted to curl up somewhere and die, maybe get a tattoo saying "I'm a lousy brother." He collapsed against one of the mirrors, dizzy. "What now, Dean? How do I help you?" he whispered to the air.

_Thump._

He stood up quickly. "Dean?"

_Thump. Thump._

The noise came from one of the mirrors, the one where he had seen Bobby's "deception." "Dean!" he cried, looking around for something to throw. Finding nothing in the spotlessly clean mirror room, he used himself as a projectile, covering his head and neck before smashing into the mirror. It shattered, raining glass around him. He waited for the shower to be over before daring to look up. There was a brick wall in front of him which rained dust with the increasing thumps.

He looked down at the awful brickwork and started kicking. The bricks fell in easily, revealing a small space filled with a small body. He frowned, gently reaching out to touch a small leg. The body, covered in duct tape, squirmed, muffled sounds of panic coming from it. "Shh, shh," Sam soothed, holding out his hands to calm the child. "It's okay, I'm not here to hurt you."

The child calmed, and Sam took the opportunity to pull him from the small space, lifting him and carrying him to a part of the floor where there was no shattered glass before setting him down to work away the duct tape from his arms and legs. He pulled off the duct tape from his wrists quickly before looking up, green eyes looking back at him from beneath blonde curls. He gaped at the little boy. "_Dean?"_

The little boy nodded, and Sam quickly pulled the tape from his mouth. Dean threw his arms around Sam. "Sammy, I knew you'd save me!" he cried, voice small and soft.

"Yeah… how'd you get in there?" he asked, pulling away from Dean for just moment to undo the tape on his legs.

Dean shrugged. "I keep me there to make sure I don't hurt anything."

Sam looked up, shocked. "Hurt…?" He sighed. "Listen. I have to save you, do you know where I need to go?"

"You've already helped, I can feel it," the little Dean said, and seeing that he was done with the tape, he reached out his arms again. Sam took the cue as fast as he could and pulled Dean back into his arms. "But you need to go through there," Dean continued, breath tickling his ear. Sam followed the tiny finger. There was suddenly a door in the mirror that had shown him the night he left. "But you won't like it in there."

"Why not, Dean?" Sam said. Dean was trembling, so he wrapped his arms harder around Dean and lifted him as he stood to survey the door.

"It's a really scary room. You don't want to go in there." Dean snuggled closer to him.

Sam sighed. "I'm sorry, Dean. I have to."

_Dun dun dun. What's in the next room? Nothing good! Tune in next time, and review!_


	8. Planes Crash

_I have gotten some super, super awesome reviews! Thanks for everyone who's stuck with me so far – I know it started really slowly, but I'm glad you all seem to like this turn of events, and don't worry, things will get happier… eventually. Enjoy this next chapter! :D_

_Disclaimer: Honestly, I think I'm too lazy to make a TV show, and that should be proof enough._

"I'm sorry, Dean, I have to," Sam said, holding his big (now little) brother close.

Dean nodded into the crook of his shoulder. "I know, that, Sammy." He pulled away to look at Sam, eyes a bright wintergreen. "I can't go in there with you, but I'm glad you saved me." He burrowed his face in Sam's hair, small fingers tickling the back of his neck.

"After this is over, I promise I'll start caring about you, Dean," he said, swallowing tears.

Dean giggled, small, thin shoulders shaking with his laughter. "You always care about me, Sammy."

Sam blinked and the small Dean was gone, leaving his arms feeling cold and empty. He slowly got to his feet, butterflies taking flight in his stomach as he neared the door. He wished he still had the small child to hold, so he could offer his comfort to someone as well as hold on to something in his fear. As it was, he was alone.

He took a deep breath and opened the door, planning to dive in and get this over with as quickly as possible but instead having to pull himself back, panicking, when there was a large gap between him and the floor, which was oddly slanted. Bracing himself, he leaped over the gap and onto the carpeted floor, grabbing quickly at the first thing he could to keep from sliding down it.

It was a seat. One seat among many, arranged in neat rows on either side of him.

He was in a plane.

A very much wrecked plane.

"A room for fears," he whispered, looking up at the trees swaying over the torn open end of the plane, their leaves dark and full of occasionally blinking eyes. "Great."

Now that he was in the plane, the slant wasn't that bad. He stood carefully and looked around. The walls of the airplane were dented in, and someone was hanging from an oxygen mask, gently swaying in the wind. Sam shuddered – he had no doubt it would be someone they knew. As he started down the aisle, he could see that wasn't the only body in the plane. Bobby was lying dead beneath one seat, John slumped against one window.

Sam hurried past them, reminding himself that this wasn't real – Dean was only afraid of their deaths. A few rats scurried past, and he frowned at them with disgust. There was another body slumped against the cockpit door, and as Sam got nearer, he could see it was Dean, looking broken and bloody. Sam wasn't sure he was even alive, but he doubted Dean really feared his own death very much. Avoided it, sure, but he didn't fear it.

"Dean?" he called, and he was rewarded with a gentle whimper, and Dean's eyes flickered open, looking at Sam for a moment. Sam smiled at him encouragingly. "Hey, Dean. Don't worry, I'm coming down there for you."

Dean whimpered, his eyes roving to something in the corner, going wide and then clamping closed, a bloody sob coming up. Sam could guess what was in that corner. "Dean. Look. Over here. I'm alive. Alright? I'm okay. I'm coming for you."

He edged down the aisle, seeing a hand fall from one of the seats, blood dripping from the fingers. He shook his head, clearing it of the disgust and focusing on Dean. Dean slumped forward, moaning when his arm buckled beneath him, broken. Sam's stomach churned when he realized that Dean's arm had been broken exactly there when he was ten and had hunted a werewolf with his dad. He tried to move closer, but he couldn't.

Something invisible was holding him back, making it impossible for him to get to Dean no matter how hard her strained. He kneeled down, reaching out his arms. "Alright, Dean," he said, closing his eyes for a long time before fixing them back on his brother, who struggled to look up at him, a whole array of past concussions glazing his eyes over. "I can't get to you. You need to come to me, alright? I know it's hard, but I promise I'll take care of you, okay?"

Dean looked up at him, then his eyes darted around the plane. He shook his head, a weak sound of protest (and a frightening amount of blood) escaping his lips. "Can't," he whispered, Sam reading his lips more than he was hearing it. "Scared."

"Well, isn't that typical?" came a drawling voice from the front row on the other side, the one without the dead body, sending shivers down Sam's spine. That was _his_ voice. "Guess you can't depend on the weakest link, huh?"

Dean sobbed, trying to curl in on himself, and Sam lost sight of his face. "Hey! Dean, no. Look at me. That's not true. You're the bravest person I know. You can do this." _I don't think like that, Dean._ Surely Dean knew that? Suddenly, he wasn't so sure.

"Oh, don't give him false hopes, Sammy. He's only going to hurt himself."

Sam gritted his teeth. "He's not real, Dean." He leaned as far as he could. "Just get to my hand, you can do it."

Dean propped himself up a few inches on his good elbow, his legs dragging sickeningly as he struggled forward, closing about half, maybe a foot, of the distance between him and Sam's hand before he collapsed again. He sobbed into the carpet bitterly, and the voice chuckled. "Pathetic."

"Dean. You're almost there. Hold out your hand," Sam said steadily, ignoring the voice.

Dean was still for a moment, then slowly slid his hand across the floor towards Sam's hand. His fingers just barely touched against Sam's, but they weren't close enough for Sam to grab his brother. The airplane gave a loud screech, and Dean gave out a whimpering cry of fear, his hand slamming against the floor for support, his breath quickening.

"No, Dean, nonono, don't give up on me now, come on. Just one more inch, Dean, please."

Dean shook his head. "Can't," he gasped, half hyperventilating, half sobbing.

"You can, Dean," Sam said. At least the voice was silent now, as though the slight brush of fingers with a real Sam sent away the terrors. "Come one, one more inch. You've moved tons of inches before."

Dean struggled to get up and failed, his arm stretched awkwardly in front of him, the other one broken. He grunted with effort and tried to get one leg moving, his foot scraping against the floor a few times without purchase. Sam's shoulder was aching with the effort of reaching for his brother, and but he was still, watching Dean's efforts. The plane rumbled again, this time shifting slightly, and Dean gave a mewl of fear. "Sammy," he sobbed.

"One inch, Dean. I'm right here."

Dean shifted his foot so that it gained purchase and managed a small burst of forward motion, enough for Sam to grasp his fingers and pull him forward, first to grasp his hand more securely, then to pull Dean into his arms, holding tight as the plane tipped, creaking and crackling…

… and then there was only the sound of a car engine, his legs pressed against leather. He looked up, blinking. He was in the Impala. "What the…"

"S-safest place I know," Dean mumbled from inside his jacket where Sam's embrace had pressed him. Sam loosened his grip, but Dean only shifted enough to turn his head where he could breathe. "F-first-aid kit is right there," he said, nodding.

Sam leaned forward, a daring feat now that he was holding Dean as well. He grabbed the first aid kit from beneath the seat and opened it. He stared. "What… all you have in here is band-aids."

Dean shrugged, snuggling closer to Sam. "Only thing I like. Mom always had a ton." Sam frowned down at Dean. Dean didn't often talk about their mother, certainly never offhanded comments like that. He filed that away for later.

"How am I supposed to fix all this…" he gestured to all of Dean's wounds, many of which had been fixed with splints and stitches. "… with band-aids."

Dean shrugged again. "The Impala's driving herself and there were just three of you. Just… start sticking."

Dean had a point, so Sam did. And though he'd never, ever be able to explain how one band-aid fixed ten broken ribs and internal bleeding, it worked. Ten band-aids later, Dean was as good as new, clean and happy in Sam's arms. Sam hugged him closer, relishing the feeling of holding his brother that he would probably not be allowed ever again if Dean had a say. He stroked Dean's soft hair, breathing in Dean's smell.

"You know I don't think about you that way, right? Like that other me in the plane…"

Dean nodded. "Of course I know that, but it's fear. It's not supposed to be rational," he said with a soft laugh.

Sam smiled at that, his breath rustling Dean's light hair. "Right." He carded a hand through Dean's hair.

Dean sighed contentedly. "We really should be moving along," he said, and the Impala rolled to a stop. Dean sat up, pulling away from Sam and getting out of the car. "Come on, I'll show you where you have to go."

Sam hurried to follow him. "You already know why I'm here?" he asked, surprised.

Dean looked back at him and grinned mischievously. "Sure. You introduced yourself with a bang."

"Oh, God, Dean, I'm so sorry…"

"Don't worry about it. I'll just a have a nice headache for a day…" Dean chuckled, shaking his head at Sam's shame. "You did what you had to."

"Yeah, but…"

"Come _on, _Sam," Dean said. Sam looked around. They were on a dirt road in the forest, and if he looked past the trees he could see the end of one of the pieces of plane and the door hanging over it. Looking back at Dean, he saw that his brother was heading towards another door. "This isn't where you want to go," Dean called back as Sam caught up to him in a jog. "But it's through here."

He opened the door and nodded at Sam to go first. Sam went through the door and looked around. It was some kind of old library-like room with shelves and small statues, like the ones that fireplaces sported around Christmastime, covering every shelf. "What's this room?" he asked, looking back at Dean.

Dean came in behind him, shutting the door behind him. "Oh. This is the good memories," he said, shrugging.

Sam whistled. "There's…" he paused, trying to find something that he could say.

"A lot?" Dean smirked. "Yeah." He came up beside Sam and pointed at some of the biggest shelves. "Those are the good ones. Those are mostly made up killing stuff, which is odd, but hey, there's our life for ya." He grinned, and Sam noticed that there was something about him that was different. Something more shy, quieter, the sort of thing only he would really notice. He furrowed his brows, but said nothing, since Dean was obviously enjoying this quick tour. He ignored Sam and continued pointing, now at a set of slightly smaller set of shelves. "And those are the great ones. Some of them are with girls, some when Dad was home, some at your matches and stuff, a bunch in the Impala… you know." He turned and grabbed Sam's arm excitedly, drawing him closer to a small table, full of the little figurines. "And these are my favorites." He looked up at Sam with a cheeky grin. "Dare you to find one without you."

Sam smiled and looked through the figurines, seeing several moments he recognized at first glance – the time he'd given Dean the amulet, Dean's sixteenth birthday, when Dad had let him drive the Impala the whole day with Sam in the front seat, the small talk they had had after hunting the Wendigo, which was probably Sam's first real smile since Jess's death…

"See?" Dean said, bumping a shoulder against Sam's. "Not such a lousy brother after all, huh?"

"But…" Sam said, thinking back to all the bad memories.

"No buts!" Dean said stubbornly. "Look. You've gotta fix things. I get it. You don't have time to dwell on the good, because that's not killing me, but it's here, and most of it is _you_. And don't start thinking you're selfish, either, because you aren't. Most of the times you didn't notice something, it was because _I_ was hiding it. Dad too. Just because he thought making us soldiers was better for us than love doesn't mean he was just an asshole, it means he made mistakes. Because you, Sam, and him, you're both human. And until you accept that, stop blaming yourself and trust yourself… with me, I guess, you can't save me, got it?"

Sam looked at his brother, blinking away tears. "Yeah. I got it."

"Good, because I'd rather not die." Dean smiled, patting him on the shoulder. "I believe in you, little brother."

Sam frowned. "You're different."

Dean shrugged. "Sure. You've struggled past all the coping mechanisms. This is just… me."

"I like it," Sam said smiling.

"Sure, well, enjoy it while it lasts," Dean said, grinning. Suddenly, he sobered."There's one more room before we hit the root of the problem."

Sam pointed at the door on the other side of the room. "Through there?"

Dean nodded, looking nervous. "Yeah. I… listen. Sam. I know you have to do this… but… I… I really don't want you to, so… I guess… handle with care, y'know?"

Sam nodded. "I will."

"Okay, then," Dean said, and Sam walked past him to the door. Dean came up behind him, fidgeting, but nodded when Sam looked back for approval.

The next room was painfully familiar.

Really, really painfully familiar.

"My nursery?" Sam breathed. He looked, aghast, at the dark figure in the room. "Is that…?" Dean nodded silently beside him, tugging gently on his sleeve and pulling him towards the closet. Sam looked back in horror – there was his mother, sliding up the wall. "Dean, this is your memory. How can it…" he trailed off as they stopped in front of the door of the closet, and through the small crack between the doors, Sam could see a small eye and a few fingers. He froze in horror, looking back at the older Dean. "You _saw _it happen?"

_There it is. The last room. Hope you guys enjoyed this one – I know plenty of you were sad about Dean's childhood, but the fact is we all remember the bad things better than the good ones – those are the ones buried deeper so we can keep them forever, I suppose. I won't have very many chapters after this, but so far, the questions I've had from you will be answered, but if you have more… I'll be sure to find a way to add them! Thanks for reading and review!_


	9. Bunnies and Butterflies

_You guys are all awesome. Totally. Thanks for all the great reviews and further conversations that I've had with all of you guys. :D I'll be wrapping this up fairly soon – but in no small part due to dljensengirl88, I'll be posting a preseries story a little bit after I finish this and another story I'm working on (that's not fanfiction)._

_Disclaimer: I don't own anything. As a matter of fact, even this computer belongs to the school._

"You saw it happen?" Sam asked in horror, barely noticing that the scene around him had faded into another room.

Dean nodded, looking up at his brother with wide eyes. "After it was gone… I… I ran. I was in the hallway when Dad ran by and I was too scared to do call out to him. Only reason I went back was because there… there was fire everywhere and I was scared that you and Dad…" He gasped sharply, suddenly grabbing onto Sam's arm.

"Dean?" Sam asked, panicked.

"I think… I think we're out of time, Sammy," Dean groaned, pitching forward.

Sam caught Dean in his arms, easing him to the ground. "What do I do, Dean?" he asked desperately as Dean curled in on himself with a moan.

Dean raised a shaking arm to point at something in the room, something that Sam was sure he would have notice before – it was a giant tree, black, gnarled and reaching high up, threatening and looming. "That's… that's it."

_Great, _Sam thought, _now what do I do with it?_

He looked around the room, spotting an axe in the corner and rushing to it, pausing when Dean slumped onto the floor with a strangled whimper. Dean waved him away. "Forget me, I'm not real!"

Sam gritted his teeth in shame, but he went for the axe anyway, snatching it up and focusing on hacking at the tree as fast as he could, trying to concentrate on the tree rather than the pains sounds Dean was making behind him. The chips were coming away too slowly, and Dean was coughing, gasping for air. Sam clenched his jaw harder. "Dammit, Dean, I am _not _letting you go now!" he cried to the air, the cutting blurring into automatic movements, even the visual blurring… blurring into black.

He woke to see the ceiling above him. "No!" he cried, sitting up quickly, only just managing to catch Dean when his brother's fall reminded him that Dean was still in his arms when he'd started. He leaned over Dean, ignoring the girl as she came over. "Dean!" he cried, patting his brother's cheek. He moved to feel Dean's pulse when he caught sight of Dean's eyes opening just a crack to look at him, eyes glazed. "Oh, God, thank you, thank you…" Sam gasped, pulling Dean into a strong hug.

"Mpfff…" Dean spat into Sam's shirt, struggling to push away from Sam. Sam let him, and Dean coughed a few times, trying to catch his breath. He was still unsteady, so Sam kept his hands firmly on his shoulders. "Wha…" he mumbled, looking around, confused. He jumped when he saw the girl. "Sam!" he yelled.

Sam shook his head, trying to sooth his brother. "Shh, shh, Dean, it's okay, it's okay, she's helping!"

"But…" Dean protested, bringing up a hand to his head and hissing. "Wha… why?"

Sam shrugged, looking up at the girl. "She said she owed you."

Dean frowned, and she surged forward helpfully. "Uh, you wouldn't recognize me, but you saved my life, summer of 1994."

Dean blinked at her owlishly, shaking his head slightly as if to clear it of the pain. His brow furrowed determinately, roving over the girl, finally settling on her hand and narrowing. She brought her hand up, noticing he was looking at it. There was large scar on either side of her hand, going in and coming out, looking like a burn scar. Dean's eyes widened. "No," he breathed.

The girl looked equally startled. "You actually… wow." She drew back, obviously impressed.

"There's no way," Dean continued, as if he hadn't heard her.

"Looks can be deceiving?"

"You were a _frog."_

"Toad, actually." She bit her lip, the very picture of awkwardness.

Sam looked between them. "Wait… what?"

"The fey are shapeshifters and I like toads, okay!" the girl cried, throwing her hands up and then slumping forward, looking dejected. "They're cute and they can jump super high."

Dean struggled to sit up. Sam hurried to help him with a gentle hand to his back. Dean gave him a funny look, then started explaining. "Some sickos had it… her… nailed down and were tossing matches at her, so I told them to shove off. No big deal," he said, shrugging.

"It was to me," the girl answered.

Dean shrugged. "Thanks for saving my life."

"Ditto."

There was a moment of awkward silence. "Can we get back to the motel?" Dean asked finally, looking at Sam, who helped him stand. Once Dean was on his feet, he was fairly steady, so Sam let go, surprised when Dean reflexively reached for him. Dean seemed just as surprised and slightly confused. _Did my trip really change things?_ Sam wondered, frowning.

"Oh, hey," Sam said, turning back around to the girl. "What's your name?"

"Clara," she said, with a smile. "Maybe we'll meet again, huh?"

-X-

There was an imposing silence on the way back to the motel. At least Sam had gotten to drive without (much) fight from Dean. Dean was slumped against the window, rubbing at his brow. As soon as Sam put the Impala in park, he reached for the door. Sam locked it before he could. "Nu uh," he said severely. "We need to talk."

Dean looked at him, looking ashamed and annoyed. "I know. Mary was the killer, you were right…"

"What?" Sam asked, having forgotten that that was how this had all started. "No. About Mom."

Dean blanched. "Dude, I don't think…"

"I know you saw, I know you hid and I know you ran," Sam said. He knew Dean would feel guilty about something like that. It was just the way Dean worked, blaming himself for things like being scared as a four year old.

Dean swallowed, looking frightened. "How…?"

"_And_," Sam continued, ignoring Dean. "It's okay. You were four, and there was nothing you could do."

Dean's eyes filled with tears. "But I should've…"

"What? Run out and gotten killed yourself? Gotten Dad even though he was already there?"

Dean was silent, eyes fixed on his, searching for something. "How do you know that, anyway?"

Sam gritted his teeth. Though it was a good question, it was Dean's way of changing the subject, avoiding coming to terms with the fact that something was not his fault. However, he had to tell Dean sooner or later, even if Dean was going to be furious with him. He breathed out a sigh. "The only way to save you was to get into your head."

Dean ogled. "What?"

"I took a dream trip through your mind, Dean."

There was a long silence, and the longer they sat there, the more Dean's unbelieving stare bore into him. Finally Dean spoke, his voice hoarse. "Unlock the door."

"Dean…"

"Now."

Sam did as he asked, and Dean dove out of the car, swaying for a moment from the quick jump to his feet, practically jogging to the room, using his own key to open the door and leave it a crack open for Sam. Sam pushed open the door, peeking in in the hopes of seeing how Dean was reacting. "Dean?" he called. Dean was sitting on his bed, looking at the wall blankly. Sam sighed. "Come on, man, say something."

He sat beside Dean, but got no reaction. He waited a good ten minutes, neither of them moving. "If you're mad at me, just say so, Dean."

Nothing.

"Dean, I'm sorry. You were dying."

Dean stood, not looking at him, and Sam put a hand on his shoulder.

Dean whirled around, punching Sam hard in the face. Sam didn't retaliate, but when Dean moved to hit him again, he grabbed Dean's hand. Dean lashed out with his other arm, but Sam caught that and gripped it tightly as well. He crossed Dean's arms over his head, turning him around and pulling him close, arms pinned over his chest. Dean gave a desperate and angry growl, sounding like a child throwing a tantrum. He struggled against Sam, but Sam knew that the stab wound, treated by Clara but still there, and the headache were weighing him down enough that he wouldn't be able to struggle free of Sam, even if he normally could.

Dean kicked out, pushing one foot into the floor and slamming them both into the bed. He tried to drive his head back into Sam's face, but Sam easily tilted his head out of the way. "Stop, Dean, stop," he said calmly but loudly.

"Let me go!" Dean cried in response, kicking out wildly. He sounded devastated, and Sam almost let him go, but he knew what Dean really need. "LET ME GO!"

"NO!" Sam yelled, and Dean jerked and went limp, sniffling.

"Let me go, Sam," Dean whispered.

"I won't."

Dean gave a choked sob before quickly swallowing his tears. There was a long silence after that, Sam holding onto Dean and Dean perfectly still. After a while of silence, Sam started to feel the gentle shivers of Dean trying not to cry. "It's okay, Dean," he whispered. "It's okay."

Exhaustion, pain and most likely some of Sam's interference finally overcame Dean. Sam couldn't hear Dean's crying, but he could feel the increase of shaking and sniffing. "Shh," he mumbled, putting one arm around Dean to free the other to brush away Dean's tears and stroke his hair back. "It's okay. I still love you. I still respect you. I'm still here. It's okay."

He pulled Dean into a strong hug, and for once, Dean relented, snuggling further into his arms, pressing his face into Sam's shirt. Sam rubbed circles onto his back, quietly shushing Dean until he stopped crying and pulled away to look up at Sam. Sam carefully wiped Dean's face with his sleeve. "What'd you see?" Dean asked quietly.

Sam told him everything, and Dean was silent as he did. When Sam was finished, his eyes flickered down in shame. "Dean," Sam said warningly.

Dean looked up, his eyes showing his struggle to hide the fear and shame in them. "Yeah?" he asked, sounding nonchalant.

"Dean, I know what you think," Sam said, trying to be patient. "And you're wrong."

Dean pulled away, but Sam didn't let him, and Dean looked at him, looking annoyed despite the fear in his eyes. "About what, Sam?"

Sam sighed and closed his eyes. "About love being a weakness. About something being wrong with you." He opened his eyes and caught a quick expression on Dean's face, eyes shining and hopeful, as if this was something he'd waited for his whole life before Dean quickly pulled back, going blank. Sam gritted his teeth. "Dean," he said, exasperated. "You're the strongest person I know. And you know how you do that? Love. Because you love me and Dad so much, you'd do anything for us, stuff that anyone else would probably say was impossible. That's not a weakness."

Dean finally softened a little, his worry showing on his face for once. "But…" he managed, and Sam quickly cut him off.

"No buts," he said, repeating what the dream-Dean had said. "Dad had good intentions, but shoving you away like he did, that was what was something wrong with our _lives_, not you _or _Dad, honestly."

Dean relaxed, as though he had been dreading that this would only be another fight between John and Sam that he would have to mediate. "I always figured… that at least if he was proud of me, it'd be _like _he loved me, you know?" Dean whispered, burrowing into Sam's shirt again.

"Dad _does _love you. We both do, more than anyone else in the world. You know that, right?" Dean nodded, and from the wetness seeping through Sam's shirt, he could tell that Dean's silent tears had started again. "I love you." He held Dean close and pressed a quick kiss to Dean's head before he could protest.

Dean pulled away, but Sam could see the reluctance, the slight heaviness in his limbs as he pushed up. "Dean. It's okay. Whatever you need," Sam whispered, and Dean looked at him with a relieved look on his face, collapsing back onto Sam's arm. Sam settled his arm just under Dean's neck so that he could tease his brother's spiky hair as Dean's eyelids grew heavy.

"Don't need cuddling every night, you know," Dean mumbled, half asleep.

"Sure, Dean," Sam whispered, careful not to rouse Dean into full awareness. The rings under his eyes were obvious signs that his brother needed sleep.

"Jus… like to know you're here."

"I am."

Dean replied with a soft snore.

-X-

The next day, he woke before Dean and went out for breakfast before Dean woke. When he was back, Dean was up, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, on Sam's laptop. As soon as Sam walked in, he slammed it shut, prompting Sam to raise an eyebrow. "Dude, if my laptop is frozen..." he warned, though the guilty look on Dean's face was certainly not from Busty Asian Beauties. "What are you doing on there?"

Dean avoided his look, and Sam was about to grin and tell him nevermind when Dean responded. "Looking up music."

Sam looked up. That wasn't what he was expecting. "What music?"

"MGMT," Dean replied sheepishly.

"I've heard of them. Are they good?" he asked, extending a bag of breakfast foods from the nearest diner in order to set Dean somewhat at ease.

Dean shrugged, sorting through the foods. "Dude!" he cried happily when he found what Sam had brought him. "You brought me pie!"

Sam smiled at that, shaking his head. His brother was certainly one of a kind. He'd thought that Dean would never change, but now he wasn't so sure.

Over the next few months, Dean would start saying "Love you," before hanging up the phone. There would be little touches on the shoulder occasionally, a few stray hugs. Leaning his head on Sam's shoulder when he needed stitches. No break in flirting, but less going out with women all night. Little things. Little changes.

But for now, Sam was going to do what he did best, whether he liked it or not – he was going to be a brother.

_So yeah. That's the last chapter. I hope you liked. Also, there's some for emebalia, who I think was the person who said something over my last story that the Winchesters don't get happily-ever-afters, so I wrote a kinda-sorta happy ending. Not exactly candies and rainbows but right up there, right? XD Thanks all for reviewing/subscribing/favoriting, and as soon as I have a fully formed idea for my next story, I'll get on it. :D_


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